Cirrus

Lapromantic surgery means the rebirth of surgical theater, or the surgical movies, anyway: students munch popcorn and the ripples of Patient X’s brain flicker on a crystal screen. Nearby, Cirrus sweats as he guides the eldritch laser to its targets. Three fragments of unbeing left. Two. One.

A great cheer from the students, and Cirrus scrubs up while his interns sew. “You’re amazing,” breathes the attending muse.

“It’s a routine procedure,” he says.

“It’s a miracle,” she smiles. She slips between him and the sink, tilts his chin down, unties the sterile straps. He has no face beneath his mask.